Tracks
by Cheshire of a smile
Summary: New York is a busy place with a score that's as loud as every voice in the city. Karkat is a homeless member of society, trying to raise enough money to survive at least. Sollux is a university student who passes him every day in the subway tunnel. It's possible that the piece might run a little smoother for them.
1. Prolog

A/N: Welcome to the prolog of my new story! I'm excited about this. i hope y guys enjoy, and I hope my chapters come out well because that'd just make me über happy. R&R!

* * *

New York is a busy place with a melody. With its bustling people going too and from work, talking on their headsets or phones. With its rushing students, going too and from school, laughing and chatting with their friends, giggling and gawking at boys or girls they find 'cute'. With its mothers and fathers, hushing children on the way to the store, or the doctor's, or to see family.

New York is a diverse place with a harmony. With its merchants, selling their wares and making a profit in stores. With its street venders, competing to see who can call the loudest and draw the most business with the most satisfaction. With its prostitutes, turning tricks and working the corners like they were born to sell their soles. With its dealers, slinking about the alleys and lots, beady-eyed and jumpy as they grab cash and hand over death certificates by the gram.

New York is a changing place with a drum beat, a strong base line. With its busses, moving people through the streets in tidal waves. With its traffic, held up or speeding past in a cacophony of honking horns and humming motors. With its steady thud-slap-thud of walkers, setting the rhythm for every heart beat and breath. With its underlying rumble of the subway as it takes the underground by storm and branches people out through the arteries and veins at break-neck speeds.

New York is a broken place with the screech of that one bad trumpet or cello in the orchestra. With its beggars, trying to find someone to finance their habits. With families, trying desperately to scrape by. With its gangs, getting a kick out of pulling blood from one another and getting a rise. With its addicts, going for kick after kick as their lives wither into nothing. With its homeless, sleeping where it's protected from the cold and wind, eating little when they can afford it and starving when they can't.

New York is symphony, composed in utterly perfect imperfections as life ebbs in an out of the movements. The score is etched into each and every life, every thing, every insignificant detail.


	2. Chapter 1

Tracks: Chapter 1

Whoever said 'New York is where dreams come true' had obviously never lived here with nothing but an ancient violin and a rusty sickle. Yup, living the life, huh? The person who said that had probably grown up in this town as is. Everything must have been romanticized back then, or they just hadn't seen the parts I have. I've seen the underbelly, the ghettos, the dredges of society. They don't advertise Red Hooks or any such places, now do they? No, just the sparkle or Broadway or Wall Street. Vultures...

Sitting on the bench in one of the subway tunnels, I look around and take in the sights of morning rush hour coming to a close. Up until about ten minutes ago I'd been expertly drawing bow across the strings of my violin to earn some form of wage. It isn't much, but it was enough to buy a sandwich and a shitty cup of coffee as my breakfast, as well as pay my train fare. I could make more money, I'm sure, if my strings weren't about to snap, if my instrument wasn't old and worn, if it wasn't loud as fuck, if more people paid attention to the homeless young adult with the overgrown, choppy blonde hair and rusty eyes. If, if, if. If, if, if...

I sigh and lean back in my seat, massaging my freezing finger tips that had been rubbed raw from an hour of playing in the cold winter air that tends to sweep down into the underground and settle. My eyes scan the lingering crowd who wait for the train: a mother and her son, maybe nine years old; a couple who look about as happy as only newly weds can; a girl, maybe just seventeen, with a rounded belly casting around nervous looks at a man who's been watching her for the last five minutes.

I try not to even think what may be going on in everyone's mind, especially not the minds of the elderly ladies who gaze my way with pity and an undertone of disgust. I wonder what they see, though. A street rat in an over-sized winter coat and worn jeans? A poor sole who'd come on hard times? A boy who could have had a promising career? By the way the hold their large purses a little tighter, I know that it's the first.

There isn't much time to dwell on it, of course. The train rolls in a minute later, heading towards Washington Square from where I'd been in the lower east side, and I grab my violin case quickly before rushing on. I take a seat at the back under a heater vent, blowing on my hands to warm them up and regain some feeling.

The ride takes a little while, but the stop comes and I barely make it onto the Blue Line heading north before it leaves. The are more people on this train, more people who look at me like I'm a parasite. I guess that's alright, not many people in my position would be taking the subway around, especially not here in these parts of town, but still, I want to shrink until I disappear. No, I don't let them see. I shoot a glare at a some punk staring at me like I'm filth.

"Can I fucking help you with something, or is idiocy your natural expression?" I snap at him, scowling.

Before he can retort, his stop is called and he clears out. To hell with him. I take in someone who was watching from behind a pair of red and blue shades and vaguely recognize them from the Orange Line. We'd probably shared a car a couple times but usually his nose was buried in a book or he joined the rest of society in the all American pastime: the Let's Ignore Karkat Game. Once or twice he's dropped a couple of loose coins into my case but not too much.

I don't dwell, just lean my head back and close my eyes. I listen to the soft murmur (shss), the clicking of the tracks (chk-chk), the giggling of keys (clink-chhhhink), and the world melts away. I hear the music, and I feel the music, and I am the music. Even my broken old violin could fit into it and there are a million different combinations of notes that would fit right in this moment- no, this moment- no, this moment. It's so hard to keep up because as a second ticks by, everything is different.

Mom always told me I had a song in my mouth before I had words and that I'd written music before sentences. I didn't doubt that, and I probably never will. I remember ninth grade when nothing made sense to me but scores and I'd been pulled from school for a 'severe learning disability'. I laugh softly to myself, earning a few odd looks that I can feel but not see as I think about how they'd tried getting things through.

My trip down misery lane is cut short when my stop is called. I grab my case, get off. Pausing in the middle of the platform, I get my bearings right as Glasses pushes past me without a thought in the world and starts to head down the street. I shoot a scowl his way before starting the trek towards Central Park for my second spot of the day. Know where the hot spots are and people will come to you instead of actively searching them out.

I just sit for a while, watching people. No where to go so why not relax a little, right? Lunch rolls around and I finally set up. Killing two hours is hard when all you want to do is anything but sit. People start passing through the park - on lunch break from work, waiting between classes, just out - and I draw the first note out of the wooden instrument.

Oh, what I would do to be that song, that note, that melody that is so free and limitless. I wouldn't be tied down to earth. Then again, my playing starts and I'm a slave to the music as minutes pass and Beethoven fades into Bach which fades into modern into renaissance into whatever the hell I want it to because it is my moment, my feelings, and my life.

Someone snaps in my face and the bow slips out of my hand as I jolt, startled. I open my eyes to be greeted with a air of red and blue glasses a few feet away from my own rust coloured gaze.

"Athhole, I athked what you were playing," he says (repeats?) rather rudely. I scowl up at him, jaw working irritably while I work out the nerves in my system. No me just stopped to talk. Not ever. No one cared.

"I wasn't playing anything," I reply, voice sounding way too much like a raspy fifteen year old than nineteen.

"Oh, tho you were jutht pretending to make noithe on that?" he shoots back, jerking his chin towards my instrument.

I roll my eyes. "No, fuckass, I mean it's just notes. It's not a song, it's improvisation, ever heard of that?" And damn, does he look surprised for a brief moment before he returns to passively annoyed.

"Thtudent?"

"No."

"Oh." Ya, that's what I expected to happen anyway. All the same, he drops a few dollars into to my case and walks off. Highlight of me da- ya fucking right. I get in position to play again and get half a note out before he shouts back: "Maybe you'd make more money if you ditched the shitty inthtrument!"

"Thanks for the advice, captain fuckmunch, I'll try and remember than next time I can't afford one!"

* * *

"Hey there, my motherfucking best bro," comes a gravely, southern drawl from behind me.

"How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?" I snap after finally getting my heart rate under a hundred.

I turn around in my chair to see Gamzee motherfucking Makara, looking down at me with his stoner grin and violet eyes that see everything.

"Come on, bro, don't be like that. What's all up on your mind, gettin' you so bothered? Lay it on my, my brother."

Gamzee is my self-proclaimed best friend, not that I really mind. He's got about five years on me and damn does he have a story to tell about how he ended up the split personality, art-school drop-out he is today, but hell if I can keep it straight. Then again, meeting him had probably been the best thing that'd happened to me in a long time.

_A boy, maybe sixteen, sat shivering against a brick wall. His rust-red eyes were closed so he didn't have to see the whitening surroundings or watch his breath escape in front of him in misty clouds. The snow dusts his dark blonde hair as he huddles tighter under the old blanket he'd brought with him to keep originally as a cover for his old violin when he had to leave it alone. It was coming in handy right now of course. _

_He'd been on his own for three weeks now and it was hard, but Karkat had been scraping by. He was drifting out, half asleep, and worried that sleeping would equal to freezing to death. He forced his eyes to stay open- no, that was a mistake and he knew it as another sharp wind blew by. Damn, it wasn't supposed to be so cold! _

_"Hey there, lil' guy, what'cha all up and doing there?" came a gravelly voice. Karkat looked up at where it came from, seeing a man with tanned skin and violet eyes. Somehow the unusual features all came together with his lazy smile. The Cancer just gawked at him a little. "Not talking? Alright then, that's cool. You got anywhere to be going? Nah, doesn't look like it. Come on then, I know a place." He holds out a gloved hand and, after a moment's hesitation, the blonde reaches out and takes it. _

Ya, he probably saved my life, and even if he didn't I would still owe him for helping me out time and time again. Right now, I'm sitting in the soup kitchen near my first and last subway stop of the day with my case on the ground, and Gamzee sitting next to me.

"Nothing is fucking wrong, clown," I grumble, taking another spoonful of the warm broth. Thank god for these places...

"Hey, something's obviously rattling around in your think pan and bringing on them wicked blues," he insists.

I sink down in my chair a little. "I just got harassed by some guy in the park today, it was nothing..."

Gamzee frowns a little and I feel his hand patting my back gently. Annoying as he is, it's times like this where I know why I like him. "You want a hug, Karbro?"

"What? No!"

"Nah, don't be like that, com'ere."

"I don't need a hug!" All the same, he wraps his arms around me, drawing an undignified squeak out of me while he nuzzles his cheek into me ratty hair like its the softest thing he's ever felt. "Damnit, let go!" I shout, too busy trying not to laugh to actually sound angry.

"You love this, stop being such a grumpy little fucker," he teases.

"Fuck you, Makara, not everyone wants your hands on them while you enforce your cuddling!"

"But you do and you know it." Okay, maybe he has a point...I give in and hug him back, sighing a little while his small shooshing sounds melt the tension out of my system.

* * *

A/N: Hey! This is going to be a lot more fun to write than I originally thought, and I already thought it would be fun. Do you guys know how hard it is to navigate New York's subway maps? I don't even live in NYC, I never thought I'd have to learn where everything is... Whatever.

My updates will be a little weird this week, may not happen for this one on Friday, may not happen for Cold Blood on Thirsday if you're following that. I have Fan Expo on Friday and the finishing touches and general prep must be done on my costume.

Many thanks to everyone who is following this and commented, I love all you guys.

_~Chesh_


	3. Chapter 2

Gamzee has a small, one room apartment that's furnishes with a couch and a coffee table. The rest is taken up with canvases, easels, and pain supplies of varying colours and tones. There were quite a few splatters littering the walls that were an indistinguishable colour under the dirt and other paints. He really is a great artist and I always admire the new works.

There's a new painting in the middle of someone huddled in an ally, the sky in the back a dark red. I recognize myself and sigh. Of course, it was only a matter of time until that floated back to the surface and he painted that. It isn't often he does a serious piece so I guess I should be flattered but it just makes me a little sat.

Gamzee had insisted I come back with him on grounds of him 'not wanting his best bro to catch an non-miraculous cold' and I couldn't argue when snow had started up again. I take a seat on the couch, shucking off my winter coat and curling up with my legs tucked into my chest. Gamzee doesn't care about my boots dripping onto where he usually sleeps, he just comes over and tucks a blanket around me before going over to a grey-is fabric stretched over some wood and grabbing a brush.

Watching him paint it always interesting but I don't have a chance today because my eyes are already pulling shut. No, stop that. Gamzee said... Something.

"Huh?" Eloquent as ever.

"I asked if you're gonna crash here, but it looks like you are," he said, looking over from his palette.

I look up to see that Gamzee had already swirled too many colours across the sheet for it to have been just a few minutes that my eyes were closed. I... I didn't fall asleep, did I? I guess I did, because checking the wall clock tells me it's been two hours since I've been here.

"Um, nah." It shake my head and stand up, rubbing my eyes. Apparently that won't do and Gamzee wasn't asking the question, because he was across the room soon, a gentle hand on my chest while he nudged me back down. After a moment, he crawls across me and lays down against the back of the couch on his side. I don't really see what he's doing, but I can feel the platform shifting while he settles down and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close and comfortable against him.

"Damnit, clown, let go," I mumble unenthusiastically. He's so comfortable and I'm so tired and maybe just a little sleep wouldn't kill anyone... Yes it would, sleep is bad and... What was I thinking?

"Come on, Karbro, you don't need to pull that," he coos softly. Gamzee's arm tightened a little around me and I sigh. Don't get the wrong idea, he's not coming onto me, Gamzee's just like that. I trust him enough for him to know everything that's gone on in my life, and for sure enough to calm me down in a rage. At least things could have been worse, and if he thought sleep was alright...

Drifting off is nothing but peaceful and dark is welcomed when it comes over me, my guide being the slightly staggered beating of Gamzee's heart.

* * *

"Sol!"

The muffled shout reaches my ears and I groan a bit, scrolling up the volume on my computer for the beat of dubstep.

"Sollux!"

Louder this time and I pull my headphones off, getting up from my desk and leaving mid-compile. Pulling the door open, I'm scowling. "What the hell do you want?" I snap, glaring at Eridan standing in my door. "Thome of uth have work to be doing, we can't all be living off our parentth."

"Sol, I said I'm sorry," he pleads. It makes me sick and I wouldn't have another word of it but he's stepped in.

"ED, I have a huge migraine and work to do for thchool so jutht get the hell out!"

"Come on, I didn't do anything that bad..."

"You were kiththing my ex!"

"Well she was my ex first..."

"That ithnt the point here!"

I turn to go to the bathroom and grab some pills for the sickening throbbing in my skull and Eridan follows helplessly, winding his arms around my waist when I stop at the sink. It's so comfortable and familiar but not something I'm about to give into. Then again, the involuntary lean back into him doesn't help a thing, and the flutter in my stomach when he rests his chin on my shoulder feels more like a death sentence than forgiveness like it should.

"Eridan," I breath out shakily, eyes flickering closed. It's took much like home. "You... You were with a girl that you've been thplit up with for yearth..."

"And I regret it, sol," he whispers back, kissing my neck lightly. I can hear in his voice how honest he's being about it. No, he shouldn't be here.

"I have thchool in the morning." Firm and to the point. "And I have a train to catch." And none of that would happen if you don't leave right now and let me go to sleep and get over this work!

He huffs bitterly. "Fine, I know when I'm not wanted. I'll see you, sol." He turned around and starts toward the door. I don't protest when the door shuts with a thud.

Sitting back at my computer, my head drops down onto the keys. I go through the process of mentally berating myself for how I didn't handle that properly. Eridan isn't good for me and I know it but I can't seem to let him go. My romantic history isn't perfect and this isn't nearly the worst situation I've gotten into.

I look back at my assignment and resume my codes, trying to work out my tensions in the familiar task. Coding small flash games were not the hardest thing, but it was mind-numbingly comfortable and I took refuge in the ones and zeros that kept my world spinning.

* * *

I'm not too sure when sleep becomes a thing, but all of a sudden it's morning and my clock is buzzing. Fuck, late again. Grabbing a quick shower and toast, my book bag and tech case being by the door are the farthest things from my mind. The closest would probably be how I'll have to pass the kid with the violin again and I double back to my room and grab an extra couple dollars to stuff in my pocket.

My sprint to the station brings me in ten minutes until the train and I sigh a little as the sound of untuned violin reaches my ears. It's become my morning wake up god knows when but it just didn't feel right to wait without it. He comes into view as I round the corner and a small smirk works into my face.

I toss my bills into his case before going to sit and those dark red eyes open a little, lids heavy, to rest on me tiredly. I can't really tell if the dreamy look comes from the fact that he looks like he hasn't gotten a good sleep in days or if it's from the smooth melody he's playing. It's hard to tell with this guy all the time, though. He looks young, just a teenager, with his slightly rounded face and small stature, coupled of course with the freckles that cover his face. Can't be more than seventeen, right? Then again, he looks too old with the tired way he does everything.

My train of thought snaps along with the song and loud cussing interrupts me. "-fucking useless piece of shit!" Oh... Looking over, I see the kid tearing at his violin and it takes a startled moment to realize that he's tearing out a broken string. It's a little sad, and trying to get a look at his eyes is impossible but I swear, I see a tear tracing a line down his cheek before the train gets here.

* * *

A/N: *sigh* inadequate chapter again. Sorry, guys, I've just been having some writers block which really sucks. I'm back at school starting next Wednesday too, so I'm going to get a little busy. Air you're reading cold blood, my hopes is that I'll have a chapter tomorrow but hell if I know...


End file.
